


Simple

by mrhiddles



Category: Actor RPF, Thor (Movies) RPF
Genre: Hiddlesworth, M/M, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, i did the thing, official first step into hiddlesworth fic, well i did it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-14
Updated: 2014-09-07
Packaged: 2017-12-20 03:21:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/882338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrhiddles/pseuds/mrhiddles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tom is drunk and Chris helps him to his room.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I told myself once I'd never write RPF. I also once told myself I wouldn't ever write Thorki, but I think we all know how that turned out.

“I need another gin,” Tom says, fingers gripping tight to Chris’s bicep like at any moment he’s at risk of falling. The way he slurs his speech and keeps licking his lips and tripping over his own feet tells Chris that, no, he doesn’t.

“Excuse him,” Chris tells to the few members of crew who’d stuck around that night.

Bar nights weren’t really his thing, but he went anyway because it was cheap or, if the production was large enough, free. So he often went anyway, despite the clinging leers of women with skirts raked up their thighs and, on one occasion, the guy who asked for a twenty for five minutes in the bathroom. Chris turned them down, because he wasn’t interested, because he had a small thing going on back home. Something he was beginning to be hopeful for. Elsa was nice and easy to be with, and she didn't mind his line of business since she was in it too.

After he and Tom met and started working together, the bar nights became a little more bearable. Fun, even. He enjoyed hanging out with Tom, and found his laugh infectious. It also didn’t hurt being actively involved in conversation with someone to scare off the bar swimmers who always hung around, watching and waiting for their moment to pick someone up.

It’s been a few years since he and Tom met, working with capes and helmets too large for doorways and generally rising up in the business together. It was a rare thing, that, and so he enjoyed that they got a few more movie deals out of it. A few scratches of their signatures, the next five years of their lives were pretty much planned out for them in term of scheduling.

When they weren’t working on the same production, but happened to be in the same area, they made it a point to have their own bar night. Or lunch, or dinner. Once, Tom invited him over to rehearse lines for a play he’d be doing in London, and it was easy to agree. So easy.

Tom got him tickets as soon as he was allowed them.

Tom was what most would call a social drinker. Chris had seen him have a bottle or two of wine in his hotel rooms, once he caught sight of some wine glasses tucked away in his flat. But the man didn’t _drink_. And he certainly never got drunk.

So, worried Tom was becoming a little too friendly with the bartender and crew, people they’d only just met today on set, he settles an arm around Tom’s shoulders and begins leading him away.

Tom lets out a string of what he thinks are curses, but he only shakes his head. “Let’s get you to bed, you lush.”

“I’m not a...a _lush_ ,” he spits the word, and then laughs in that bright way of his. But he leans away then and Chris has to pull him back, his arm going around his side to keep him upright.

“Absolute lush,” he mutters.

\--

After much struggling through a short elevator ride and a nearly catastrophic walk to Tom’s room—Chris had to pick his brain for ten minutes before Tom relinquished the answer—he finally managed their way to his door.

“Key, Tom. I need your key.” Chris waits as Tom pulls away, leaning against the door as he digs through his pockets. His head lolls forward and he frowns, squinting down at his efforts as if he’s angry that he’s drunk.

Finally he gets it free of his wallet and after trying twice and failing at sliding it into the slot, Chris snatches it and does it for him. Tom twists the knob, free hand pulling Chris’s wrist to follow him. He does.

Tom stops a few inches inside his room, fingers still on his wrist, and then turns around.

He’s still looking at the floor when he says, “Thank you.”

“Don’t expect any coffee in the morning. I tried the machine earlier, it’s shit.”

Tom laughs and, eyes slit, he leans forward murmuring something like _m’gonna kiss you_ , and then does. He misses though, and manages to press lazy lips to his chin.

“Stubble,” Tom mutters. He takes a step back and sighs, not opening his eyes.

Tom’s fingers meet his palm just as Chris finishes processing Tom’s lips so close to his.

He manages a feeble, “Night, Tom.” And squeezes his fingers once before watching as Tom just smiles easily at him and then turns to head inside.

The door shuts and Chris’s heart pounds.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh look what became multichaptered.

There have been three times in Chris’ life that had him staying up the night, sleep lost on him so entirely all he could do was sit in bed and think up at the ceiling.

The first had been when he was ten and left Liam alone on his own in a wide spread of desert as he ran to the nearest town. It took their family a good six hours to find him again, because Liam had a knack for getting lost. Chris had been stuck in his room the entire time, sent to bed early. Chris hadn’t thought his father could yell so loudly, no matter that it was out of concern for Liam’s whereabouts.

It was the kind of incident that matured, worsened over the years. The more you thought on it, the worst it could have turned out. If they hadn’t found Liam, he would have dehydrated or been bitten by snake, or spider, or stumbled into a lake and drowned. The what ifs were endless. Chris learned a long time ago to not spend so much time on the what ifs.

The second time was when he first auditioned for _Thor_. Even then he knew that if he got the part, it would make his career. The memory of that first night made him grin these days, but back then he hadn’t been able to sleep for two nights straight. Walked around manic, bags under his eyes and talking tiredly over the phone to his family still back in the bush. And he’d burned more calories at the gym the week before than he had in a month from sheer excitement, eager to start.

It was also when he first met Tom.

The third time is now. Chris lies in bed thinking on the times in all his life that have left him as silent as he is now, staring and contemplative up at the ceiling. Only now the reason is something of a threat to his career and bit to his own person.

Tom is one of his best friends, like a brother. He’s known the man for years, has never seen him flirt or take the arm of anyone other than female. It’s so _sudden_ that he just can’t—

His phone vibrates loudly where it lies on his stomach and he twitches for it. Sitting up, he grabs it and sees it’s Luke, Tom’s agent. The text tells Chris he’s wanting to know if Tom made it back to his room alright. Chris had snatched him away in a rare lapse of attention from the ever present Luke, someone who, Chris knew, was one of Tom’s closest friends.

A quick reply and Chris chucks his phone lazily away from him, sliding to the floor.

\--

It’s early morning and he’s in the lobby of the hotel heading for the dining hall because the coffee really is shit, when he sees Tom amble by. He squints against the light and focuses on the tiled floor, navigating his way in a robe to where he knows the breakfast will be. The bags under his eyes and the unkempt jumble of his hair tells Chris he’s in a bad way, head probably pounding from a nasty hangover.

Chris is on his way there too, but he knows Tom hasn’t seen him just yet, so he turns and heads back down the other exit, into a washroom. He’s assaulted with a wave of hot air and the smell of linen and detergent, too strong in the small space. His eyes water with the force of it, but he holds his breath and stays put.

Hiding like a child, he thinks. But then he remembers Tom’s lips a warmth near his own and he knows he made the right choice, no matter how childish.

\--

His luck runs out though when he heads for the lift and sees Tom already inside. The doors are sliding closed when Tom sees him, and shoots a hand out to stop them.

Chris enters though his legs don’t want to move.

Tom smiles at him, but it falters when he sees Chris doesn’t return it. His tired gaze switches to the floor and Chris can see he’s concentrating on not looking back up. The floor is filthy and Tom’s robe is loose on his shoulders.

Tom looks frail, thin, and it’s a stupid thing to think because he _knows_ Tom isn’t the string bean he’s always trying to convince others of thinking him as. Chris wants to say he’s sorry. Wants to grab Tom’s shoulder, or his forearm, maybe even chance taking up his wrist and squeeze. Wants to comfort his friend even though his heart’s been racing at the thought of doing so all night long.

Neither one of them moves an inch and the lift crawls at a slow pace, the delicate whirring of wires and the soft rush of air as each flight of stairs pass by.

He’s being a jackass and he knows it but—

“Morning.”

Tom’s voice startles him.

“Yeah,” Chris grunts. Not the best reply.

Tom snorts. “I didn’t see you in the lobby.”

“I wasn’t in the lobby,” he says, and hopes Tom won’t press it. It’s a shit evasion and he knows it.

Tom purses his lips and Chris glances sideways at him. Tom asks him, “Is everything alright?”

Chris sees nothing in Tom’s expression, aside from the usual default joy the man seemed to carry everywhere with him, albeit a little more tired and ragged around the eyes from the hangover.

“You don’t remember the party?” Chris blurts out, then snaps his teeth on his tongue. Stupid, Chris, he thinks.

Tom meets his eyes. “Not that much, I’m afraid.” Then he lets out a small laugh, and something inside Chris wavers. The laugh echoes hollowly and doesn’t sound entirely genuine.

Chris leans against the back wall of the lift. “Really, nothing at all?”

Tom eyes him now, and Chris can see he’s wondering at something. Tom wasn’t the suspicious type, usually. So he must be worried. “Should there be? I’ll admit I wasn’t in top form.”

Chris holds his stare for a moment longer and then let’s it drop. “Nothing, Tom.”

The doors slide open and they step out, Tom after Chris. It takes a moment for Tom to say anything. Long enough for Chris to realize he got off on the wrong floor. Tom’s floor.

“Chris?” Tom mutters. "I..."

“Yeah?”

Tom takes a step and then shifts his weight back to the other foot. He turns and heads for his room.

“Never mind.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been such a long time but this fic is finally being finished today. When I first wrote it I wasn't entirely comfortable with writing hiddlesworth but now I'm like hell yeah hel l y e a h hh hhhh.
> 
> I also rewrote the second chapter a bit, updated the rating from teen to explicit.

Chris watches until Tom rounds the subtle bend in the hall and disappears from his sight. They have more interviews tonight for the press tour and he knows they’ll see each other a few hours ahead. They have plans to meet with Luke later in the day, where he’ll diligently ferry them about the city, around to new hotels and a small café, a hole in the wall. Exclusives, they called them.

And Chris didn’t mind them, not when he got to poke fun and throw in little nods to Tom or the other people involved in the projects they were working on. It was fun to see interviewers gape, flummoxed, then scramble to try and catch up, all the while wondering if they could air certain things Chris said.

Tom always elbowed him after, jabbing him none too gently in the ribs, smiling despite the chastising he’d give Chris.

It was fun, doable. Something manageable, nothing too exhausting or nervewracking—no, the nerves were always on Tom’s end, who always worried he’d let something slip he wasn’t supposed to—But only when Tom was doing the joint interview with him.

He was particularly snarky on the solo ones and he knew full well he was, but he got away with it because he was the lead. He knew that too. And he tried, he did. He tried to behave when Tom wasn’t with him but really, what fun was there in that?

Chris still slipped a joke in here and jab in there, when the interview allowed for it.

But the point is that he knows Tom is a grounding point. Tom, who’s the epitome of energy and charm, always inspired patience in Chris. He could sit through photo shoots and interviews for longer than usual, could stomach audience’s clipped laughter when the cue lit up from behind the camera.

Tom gave him pause and it was something.

He hopes he won’t give away his nerves, heightened and unusual as they are, tonight when they have to spend most of the evening together.

\--

Chris goes back to his room, locks the door behind him. His skin feels itchy, like a rash of heat has spread from his belly up to his neck, and in every space between. His knuckles feel too tight when he makes a fist at his side. He’s half surprised to feel his groin ache with the action.

He thinks of nothing, of a blank finish, a palette of dark onyx he can peer into and see nothing reflected. He thinks of paint, of ochre, sunsets and the ocean and all manner of thing. Thinks of anything but his friend in a hotel room several floors above him doing who knows what.

If he thinks of nothing then he might be able to avoid thinking of Tom. Tom, and his pale skin and his tangle of curls, still dark from residual dye. Tom, and his hands, his long fingers he likes to tap on everything, likes to make loose fists with and pose with in photos Chris too often giggles over. Tom, who likes to stand too close and jibe right along with him, a damn cocktease in the most platonic connotation of the word. Tom. Tom, with his too long legs and the dusting of pubic hair that Chris snuck an eyeful of in one of their first costume fittings, underthings twisted this way and that while armor was considered and tossed aside for something better, something neater. Hashdash effort at best, but Chris took what he could get, joking loudly when Tom stumbled over too many hands busy with his outfit, laughing with Tom when he shot insults right back, tit for tat. And Chris caught his first look at Tom’s wit, sharp and tangible, eager to rip bloody anyone who didn’t have a head on them.

He’s thinking of Tom, and he has his hands cupped over his stirring cock and he shuts his eyes because it’s _wrong_ and he knows he can never look at his friend the same way if he does this.

But then he inhales, exhales shallowly with hands gripping tight, trying to subdue the delicious coil raking lusty nails along his skin.

He imagines Tom, laid out on his bed. Legs spread and thighs slick with lube and his cock long and straining against his stomach, eyes hooded and dark and—and Chris growls into the empty air and tears at his pants and underwear, taking himself in hand and stroking fast. He comes onto the carpet after five harsh yanks of his fist. Almost immediately he feels a small chafe when he wrings his cock for long seconds after, wanting the tension to leave his body completely.

Chris cleans up and likes that his thoughts are carefully blank.

\--

Tom looks infinitely better when they meet up at four in the afternoon, two hours before they have plans to meet with Luke to go over their plan for the press.

“Head feeling better?” he manages to ask and is grateful when Tom smiles, nodding.

“I have about three litres of coffee in me, so I feel a smidge more put together,” he tells him and it’s Tom who shifts out his elbow to nudge at Chris’s arm. “Sorry about this morning. I was a mess.”

Chris shakes his head but can’t think of what to say. Saying, _Sorry I tossed off to the thought of you spreading yourself open for me, mate_ , doesn’t seem the best course of action.

Tom takes Chris’ silence as their cue to signal a cab. Tom waves one down almost effortlessly, and he looks far too happy about it. Chris chalks it up to the fact they’re staying in one of the nicest hotels the city has to offer; of course there will be cabbies waiting on call.

Tom holds the door open for him and they slide in one after the other, Chris feeling too large for the small backseat.

\--

They drive for ten minutes down a crowded street, only managing to reach the destination Tom gave in the time it takes Chris to start wondering if walking wouldn’t have been faster.

It’s a book store. Large, several stories. Tom is beaming up at the height of it, though he squints a little against the light reflecting off the large windows.

“Promise me you won’t be getting any more Shakespeare?” Chris says and Tom laughs.

“Only if it’s on sale. Have to be practical now, don’t we,” he says back to him and Chris wonders if he meant that last part seriously.

Chris shrugs and follows after Tom as he walks carefully through the swarm of people passing on the sidewalk.

\--

It’s hard, it really is. Hard to concentrate on all Tom is telling about the store and the literature they’re browsing—that Tom’s browsing, really—when Tom insists on standing close. On touching his arm or his wrist, brushing their fingers when Chris loses his focus for a second too long while Tom is showing him some new thing to ogle over.

“I can’t believe I didn’t think to look up places to go sooner. Google is a gem, really. I never expected—” Tom prattles on and Chris listens only half the time. He can barely keep his gaze on the items Tom shows him, almost immediately snapping back to Tom when his bright eyes switch to the next greatest thing.

Chris doubts he’ll be able to get through the night’s interviews without at least one person noticing something isn’t quite right with him. He worries he’ll ruin them, ruin Tom’s career, ruin his _own_ —

“Chris?” Fingers find his chest and they’re light, wondering. His eyes find Tom’s and Tom looks at him curiously. “Hey, you alright?”

Hell, even Tom knows something’s up. He won’t last the first twenty minutes.

Chris shrugs. “Just tired, that’s all.”

Tom looks back at the bookcase, eyes scanning quickly over titles. “Didn’t catch any sleep last night, either?” he asks.

It takes him a moment.

“You—” Chris tries, but Tom has shot up, standing straight and hurrying off to find a new section of books.

He doesn’t turn back when he calls for Chris to follow and Chris knows he’s been fed a lie.

\--

Tom remembers last night, Chris knows he does. The thought repeats over and over and it makes his chest light with it, his heart giddy.

But then he feels the crushing weight of reality. That this is _Tom_ that kissed him, though it wasn’t entirely on the mouth in the first place. Tom, who announced it like he was king of the world, and maybe he had been in that moment. Chris knew he’d been floating in his skin for an hour before he could calm enough to think clearly.

Chris wants very badly to just have action decide. Wishes he could just back Tom up against a bookcase and snog him, good and simple. See if Tom, in total sobriety, wants nothing to do with him. Not like that.

Or maybe have it turn into something else. Chris doesn’t dare name it, even as a whisper inside his own head.

It’s a war in his brain and he hates it.


	4. Chapter 4

In the end, Tom doesn’t buy anything. Doesn’t even try to save face. He’s never been a terribly good liar, when not on the job. Or maybe just because it’s Chris, and Chris knows him a little better. Chris isn’t sure.

They don’t talk on the way back. Tom’s leg is jittery beside his in the small cab and Chris wonders what Tom would do if he just reached out and touched his knee, to still him.

Tom catches his eye and Chris looks away. He feels like a teen, lanky and awkward with no idea what to do.

\--

Tom is the first out the door and then there isn’t any time before Luke is calling over to them from in front of the hotel lobby. He asks where they were and when Chris checks his phone, he realizes they spent the whole two hours plus in that book store. He wonders how that happened.

Luke transfers them to his own vehicle, chatting brightly about the people they’ll be meeting tonight and more. Tom replies just as excitedly, fully engrossed in the conversation. Nothing seems amiss and it’s just how it should be.

But Tom’s fingers are bouncing on his knee now and he’s avoiding acknowledging Chris as much as possible. He remembers, he has to. He hadn’t had _that_ much to drink.

Chris watches the street pass by, the traffic crawling at a slow pace with all manner of honking and even two people yelling at each other about a bumper being dented. His skin itches and he feels Tom’s fingers drumming through where their legs are pressed together.

Luke’s eyes are on the road and so Chris reaches over, laying his hand over Tom’s knuckles.

He freezes, a sudden halt in the conversation that he picks up with a last minute clearing of his throat. Chris is still looking out the window, not daring to look back and be met with something like disgust.

But Tom presses his leg closer, makes a fist beneath Chris’ hand and allows it when Chris moves his hand to wrap around his wrist. Allows it when Chris squeezes gently.

Luke picks up the talking and so Chris turns. Tom is staring at him, eyes soft.

\--

They arrive at the first interview location. It’s in a hotel lobby some blocks away, in a seedier part of the city. They follow Luke dutifully to the counter, all confirming bits of info when he checks them in as a group, having reserved a galley room for the interview. Then Chris has his chance when Luke waves them off to finish sorting the details himself.

Tom follows obediently, slightly dazed. Chris finds a hall that’s relatively empty. They can talk more easily.

“Tom, I—”

“I’m sorry about last night. Really, I am. I was a drunk mess and I, just…” he trails off and runs a hand through his hair. “I was an absolute lush, you were right. It won’t happen again.” He chuckles as if to soothe the thought over.

Chris feels his temple throb. “It won’t?”

Tom’s mouth drops open, only enough. Chris is trying to think of the right thing to say when suddenly there are a series of gasps and one high pitched yelp.

He turns around and then they’re being asked by a group of teenage girls to have their pictures taken with them. Then they see Luke, bustling down the hall and squawking at the lot of them to disperse.

They end up taking a few pictures regardless. Chris’ hand sweats where he grips Tom’s shoulder tightly. Tom’s fingers bruise his side.

\--

The interviews don’t go by fast enough. They drag and time seems to slow down, seems to take hours. Tom’s answers are distracted while Chris’ answers are short. He realizes what he’s doing before Luke can rebuke him and he makes a renewed effort to be as charming as possible. Tom laughs too much and offers touches to Chris’ arm or leg whenever he finds the opportunity. Chris has to bounce his legs and shift his weight to seem casual about it.

They break around eight for coffee and a bite to eat before going back in at it. They’re booked until ten and then, he knows, they’ll be able to talk.

\--

The final interview is close enough to the hotel they can walk, but they’re all tired enough that Luke flags down a cab anyway. They all clamber inside, only bothering so much in way of conversation when the cabby needs to know what street to turn down. They’re there in five minutes but it seems to take an hour, sitting beside Tom.

After they got food in them and the first three hours passed by, Chris’ heart calmed down. He could lean back in his chair the last exclusive and laugh easily when Tom squeezed at his arm or his shoulder. It seemed to be an endless other reality and so he didn’t worry. He let the nerves slide off him, like he does so often with everything else but now, now here they are.

Luke stares them both down on the curb. “Our flight is early, at eight tomorrow so be out the door by six thirty if you both want to make it.”

Tom holds up his hands, shoving playfully at his friend. “Yes, yes, we get it. Go get some sleep.”

Luke rolls his eyes and throws one last look in their direction before heading inside, for the lift. “Eight, remember!”

A small group of businessmen pass by and then Luke is gone and they’re left to themselves.

Tom’s tapping his foot and looking at Chris with something mischievous flickering in his expression. He seems expectant.

Chris clears his throat and fails, suddenly coughing past a dry tongue. “Um, want to come up for a drink?”

Tom grins and says, “Of course.”

Chris lets out a breath and they head for the lift.

\--

The lift is crowded, but Chris’s patience has run thin as it is and his blood is boiling. He walks forward into the throng of people to the very back, leaning against the back wall. Tom follows and Chris sees the flash of a wicked smirk before he turns away and stands directly in front of him.

The doors slide closed and the people shift around, readjusting themselves. Tom takes a step back and Chris has to stifle his chuckle. Tom’s pressed right up against him, his ass fitted to the front of his slacks and oh, the prick has his hands in his pockets and is shaking in silent laughter. Chris very carefully places a hand on Tom’s hip to keep him still but it merely prompts Tom to drag his rear across him, making arousal twitch through him.

A chime sounds and three people leave, the rest stationing themselves more comfortably towards the front.

Tom slots himself against Chris’ cock and Chris has to bite his tongue near bloody to keep sounds from spilling out unheeded. Tom’s making him hard in public and he wants very badly to bite the back of his neck for his troubles. Wants to bend him over, rut against him properly, make his skin red and—

Another chime and Tom uses the commotion of people shifting and leaving to roll his hips back firmly. Chris tightens his grip on Tom’s side, digging his nails in what he hopes says _stop_.

He does it again just as everyone settles once more—few left though there are—and a tiny breath leaves him. Chris hears it and it strikes at his blood. He rolls his hips forward and Tom almost stumbles. The only thing that stops him from careening chest first against the woman in front of him is Chris’s hand at his waist.

They both go still for the remainder of the ride, waiting patiently for each floor the others leave off on. It’s four more floors before the last person leaves and then ten more after that before Chris’ floor, then twenty or so feet to his door.

Tom takes a step away from him just before the fourth and final chime.

The last person steps out and Tom is turning before the doors even close.

Their eyes meet when the lift starts up again and then Tom is closing in, lips closing around his. Chris sighs, hands sliding up his waist. Tom’s arms go loose around his neck, fingers in his hair massaging and curling, dragging soft against his scalp. He opens his mouth and Chris licks inside, tastes coffee and herbs from the tea Tom had earlier. Tom sucks on his tongue and presses close when Chris rolls his hips forward.

He has to try very hard not to reach for skin where they are. Has to keep from sweeping his hands over his waist, under his dress shirt to smooth over heated skin. Tom’s hard against his hip, rubbing himself in the space between thigh and groin and Chris is dizzy with the sight and the feel of it. Seeing Tom’s dazed expression, lusty-eyed and hands going tight in his hair.

He opts for sliding fingers around Tom’s throat, and Tom bucks against him, eyes finally closing. A low sound leaves his throat, long and breathy at the end. It’s like he’s trying to press himself exactly to Chris’ front, meld into hi. Then he sighs deeply, body relaxing against Chris’ chest. Chris sees his flushed face and presses a kiss to Tom’s cheek.

“Did you just…”

Tom meets his eyes and is about to answer when the lift chimes again and they startle in each other’s arms. Chris sees it’s only his floor they’ve reached. Thankfully no-one is standing outside waiting to step in.

Chris places a final kiss at Tom’s neck and Tom disentangles himself. He reaches a hand down to adjust his prick and then he’s walking out. He runs his other hand through his hair, smoothing it down and looking both ways down the hall but no-one’s there to see them.

Chris doesn’t bother altering his appearance a bit. He walks forward and takes Tom’s wrist, feeling a fast beating pulse under his thumb as he leads him away.

\--

As soon as Chris has the door closed, Tom is on him. He’s in Chris’ space, their chests bumping. He crowds Chris back against the wall and closes his eyes as he nuzzles Chris’ face. His nose is cold but Chris doesn’t care, his hands are free to wander now and he’s dizzy with it.

Tom sinks to his knees, fingers busy with the fly of Chris’ trousers. He makes quick work of them and shoves them down, face pretty and flushed and staring at the cock swaying before him.

Chris feels every puff of hot breath against his skin and it drives him mad, makes him twitch restless fingers against the pebbled surface of the wall. His knees wobble when Tom leans in close, face pressed into the hair at his crotch. He inhales deeply and wastes no time in running a slick stripe from root to tip, swallowing the head and sucking deep. Chris’s hands fly to Tom’s curls and he tugs at them, grips tight enough to have Tom gag slightly.

“Sorry, sorry, oh—” he babbles, useless. Tom’s hands skim up and down his thighs, around to his ass. His fingers tease at his skin and one slips forward, pressing against him only barely. Chris thrusts forward and Tom gags again. He finally pulls off, laughing and smiling too bright for the situation.

“You look wrecked,” Chris manages to tell him. His voice is breathy, too high to his own ears.

Tom peers up at him. Then he stands and tugs at Chris’ tie to get him to follow. He sits on the edge of the bed and Chris looms over him. Tom’s already come once but he’s half hard again, tenting his own slacks, and he spreads his legs wider for Chris to see.

“God. Goddamn,” Chris whispers.

Tom starts to undo his zip, fingers ridding himself of his pants easily. Then he’s left in his underwear and can’t resist dragging a palm over himself on the way back up to his stomach, where his hand eventually stays put. Chris can see the half dried spunk on his stomach as Tom drags his fingers through it. Chris thinks he’s a nearly a damn striptease.

“I’m glad I didn’t make a mess of myself when I was drunk. That would have been hard to explain,” Tom says.

Chris approaches him finally, stepping out of his pants on the way. He grips the base of his cock to keep from spilling all over the sheets, all over Tom, as he crawls over him. Tom shimmies up the bed and gets comfortable. He hooks his thumbs under the waistband of his briefs and he pulls them down, dropping them off the side of the bed. His prick is long and flushed and Chris’ mouth waters. He’s still smiling.

“And why is that?” Chris asks him.

“Because,” he says. Tom’s hands wander to pick at the buttons of his own shirt. “Because I didn’t want this to be a drunken fling.”

“This?” Chris repeats. He’s hovering over Tom, waiting for him to have his shirt undone. He helps Tom shrug out of it, tossing it for him out of their view. He’s surprised when Tom starts for his own shirt next.

“Thought of this for a while, actually. Thought of a lot of things.” Tom’s eyes snap up to his, then back down at his handiwork. Chris tears off his own shirt as soon as it’s hanging off him and Tom surges up. He rests his weight on Tom because he knows he won’t be totally crushed by him. “God, your smell. You smell like earth and cologne.”

Chris chuckles and gathers Tom in his arms. “Is that so?” Tom’s nuzzling his face in the hair under his arm and it tickles but it feels good—he’s never had anyone do that before. Tom starts kissing his skin, sucking at the meat of his arm, the triceps, places a bite at the bicep. One of his hands finds Chris’ lower back and he digs his fingers into the base of his tailbone, and it makes Chris moan, long and low.

He rolls his hips and he can finally feel Tom against him, and so he keeps doing it, lost to the sensation. Tom reaches between them and grabs Chris, stroke him once and firm. He lifts his hips, spreads his cheeks with his other hand and Chris thrusts forward blind, catching on. Tom lets go and lets his arms fall around his shoulders to scratch at Chris’ back.

“Chris—”

He ruts against Tom, feels his hole but doesn’t press in, knows he can’t, not yet. They stay like that for some time, breathing harsh and moving against each other. Tom bites his lip hard enough to draw blood and Chris whimpers, body bending forward. He hugs Tom’s thigh to his hip, pressing him fully into the mattress as he feels his blood bolt, orgasm tearing through him. He comes onto the sheets, onto Tom’s skin and Tom rides it through, grinding against Chris’ stomach until he spills a second time.

They just lie there, still and breathing deep. Tom’s running idle fingers over his back, into the hair tied back at his nape. He works the tie loose and then Chris’ hair falls around them, Tom smiling softly as he sorts deft fingers through the tangles.

Tom sighs. Chris places lazy kisses along his neck, tasting his sweat and the light tang of Tom’s favorite cologne. He mouths at Tom’s jaw.

“You’re lovely,” he murmurs, almost to himself. When Chris pulls back to look at him Tom has his eyes closed.

He notices Chris has gone still. When he opens his eyes he looks unsure.

Chris’s stomach flips and he tries to smile reassuringly.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” he says back, voice low, quiet.

He meets Tom halfway in a kiss and feels Tom’s arms tighten around him, stealing breath.

The hot air trapped between them is stifling.


End file.
